The
Singaporeans checked their kit for the last time, ensuring that
everything was in order. The ten of them checked the crates of
equipment they had taken into (and were now taking out of) Britain,
assisting the loadies (loadmasters).

Team Rainbow pitched in, checking that the crates
were properly secured. A Singaporean C-130 Hercules, piloted by a
crew of ignorant Air Force personnel who knew better than to ask,
waited patiently on the runway.

Domingo
Chavez looked around. In the pre-morning gloom, a thick layer of fog
had settled across the base, with dewdrops marking cooler areas. The
darkness hindered the men only as long as it took for them to
'borrow' some flashlights and chemlights. The Singaporeans were
going through their crates, checking that the equipment inside
corresponded with copies of the nonexistent load manifest Wong, Tay,
Lee, Imran, and the chief loadie were holding in clipboards procured
from somewhere. The NATO troopers knew better than to assist.

A
Team-1 operator, for want of activity, was driving a forklift to haul
crates from the collection area to the side of the runway to the
cargo hold of the Herky Bird. Some volunteers from Team-1 and Team-2
were inspecting the airstrip, removing anything not bolted down to
prevent foreign object damage.

Chavez
exhaled, his breath condensing in the cool air. He'd miss the
Singaporeans, like the way he found himself wishing that he could
have spent more time with the Spetsnaz teams they had trained some
time ago. It had been a long time since they had met operatives of
their caliber, and even longer since they had seen people that
committed to their duty, and country. It was a shame that John Clark
had to meet the Minister of Defence in an 'urgent' meeting; it
would have been more appropriate for him to see the Singaporeans off.

Then
again, it's probably because it had been a long time since they had
met people from conventional military units.

Chavez
suppressed a chuckle.

"Good
morning," a strangely accented voice greeted, next to him.

"Mornin',"
Chavez replied, almost automatically.

He
was slow today. It took his brain a second or two to figure out that
there was only one person he knew that spoke with a mixture of
English accents…and that he wasn't supposed to be here.

"Cheah?
What the hell are you doing here!" he exclaimed, turning.

The
writer shook his head. "I don't have to explain it to you all
over again, do I?" he half-whined.

"No,
not really…but why are you here?"

"They're
my men, my compatriots…do I need any other reason?"

The
Singaporeans had inspected the last of their cargo, and were now
letting the loadies do their bit. Dressed in Smart No. 4 uniforms,
the men headed for their NATO counterparts. Team-1 and Team-2
assembled at the collection area.

Wong
walked up to Chavez.

"It's
been an honor to train with you, with Team Rainbow," he said.

"Same
here," Chavez agreed.

Walking
forward, Wong silently reached his hand out.

Chavez
took it, and shook Wong's hand. The Singaporean had a firm grip,
and shook Chavez's hand, his right hand oscillating once. The rest
of the Singaporeans and Team Rainbow shook each other's hands,
offering well wishes and good luck.

As
the Singaporeans turned to head for the Hercules, they stopped, and
turned around. As though by unspoken command, as one, the
Singaporeans stood-to, and crisply saluted the NATO troopers. Rainbow
reciprocated, their salutes as sharp as any honor guard's.

A
moment passed in silence. Time stood still. The world melted away as
the soldiers from East and West locked each other's gaze. Several
SAS passers-by stopped to watch, but the soldiers didn't care. The
men's breath became visible, little puffs of white in the morning
chill. The Singaporeans' Airborne and marksmanship badges caught
the glow off the runway beacons, glistening in the dark. The men wore
commando shoulder flashes on their sleeves and the distinctive red
berets of SAF commandos, the only identification badges the
Singaporeans would ever wear, and only for formal occasions.

Cheah
stood at the sidelines, standing at attention. Like the Singaporeans,
he was dressed in uniform, only that his was designed for the youth
of the National Cadet Corps. The NCC crest mounted on his green
beret, above his left eye, shone dully in the dark. A row of four
badges, signifying his proficiency in drills, orienteering, swimming,
and showing his physical fitness state, was pinned above his left
breast pocket. Another badge, pinned higher up, was proof that he had
passed the Singapore Anti-Narcotics Association's tests. Yet
another badge, pinned just under and next to his left collar,
indicated that he had achieved the Gold Total Defence badge. A final
badge, made of cloth, was attached to a circular patch of Velcro sewn
high on his left shoulder. It was the prestigious Army-NCC badge,
awarded only to cadets who had attained a specialist rank and higher.

First
Sergeant (NCC) B Cheah K W briefly noted that he had to be one of the
least-decorated sergeants in his company…but what the hell. He had
earned the right to be here. This was his men, his creation, his
story, and he'll be damned if he didn't see it through to the
end.

After
an eternity, the SpecOps men lowered their hands.

"Well,
goodbye," Chavez said to the Singaporeans. Farewells weren't his
specialty…and right now, he had no idea what to do.

"Goodbye,"
Wong replied.

The
Singaporeans turned, and walked towards the bird out.

Cheah
returned to parade rest, seeing the black ops men enter the cargo
hold. Taking a few steps forward, he entered Chavez's view. At this
point in time, Chavez finally remembered that Cheah was still around.

The
engines produced a strong backwash, sweeping across the length of the
airstrip and engulfing Team Rainbow. Cheah's uniform shirt
fluttered in the powerful wind.

"Goodbye,
then!"

The
Hercules started down the runway.

"A
goodbye isn't forever!"

Cheah
turned around, facing the C-130, now accelerating down the airstrip.

"Wait!"
Chavez called.

Cheah
turned around.

"What's
the name of the Singaporeans' unit? They didn't tell me what it
was!"

Cheah's
mouth moved, but his one-word reply was lost in the noise.

"What?"
Chavez screamed.

Cheah
smiled.

The
Hercules took off.

Before
Chavez could ask, a piece of grit flew into his eyes. Looking away,
he rubbed them, forcing the dirt out. When he was fairly sure that it
was gone, he looked up, turning to Cheah.

But
he was gone.

The End

Final
Author's Note: I couldn't stop myself from describing myself,
before you ask. My name is something I don't release to just
anybody for personal reasons. Anyway, this miniseries owes its
creation to Typewriter King, who suggested that I write a subreality
to 'disguise' my military guide. Shame I couldn't find the
opportunity to put in some more details, due to time constraints. In
addition, I'd like to thank domingochavez, for information
regarding the use of NVGs in close quarters (and some more). Now,
I'll have to study…

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.